Mile High Club
by itisamysteryyy
Summary: Jimmy hates flying. He was worried about the plane crashing, but now he's worried about his sanity crashing as Chazz distracts him. Told from Jimmy's point of view. Very slashy. Not too graphic. Enjoy!


It's becoming hard to concentrate on this flight. That hand moves higher on your thigh. You swat it away but it returns a few seconds later.

You hate planes. There are so many things that can go wrong. The engines could fail. A storm could crop up and just ruin the momentarily smooth flying. The stewardess with a ponytail that seemed to be painfully dragging her eyebrows into her hairline could sneeze on you. That may just be the worst scenario of all, especially when thinking about how low leveled your tiny bottle of carry-on hand sanitizer is running.

Worst of all, though, is that warm hand running up your skinny jean clad thigh. You refuse to look over to the man sitting in the window seat next to you. A seat he vocally demanded to have. You didn't even argue on that one for once, not even for the usual sake of arguing for the heck of it. If the plane was going to crash, you'd really rather close your eyes and blissfully not watch the clouds pass and the grass get closer.

Chazz. Chazz is leering at you. You can see it as you slightly turn your head in his direction. Stop it, Jimmy! Don't give him the satisfaction of being affected by him. Him and his reeking, manly charm and his horse mane hair and- no. Stop. One fumbling, spur of the moment encounter in a hotel after a recent victory meant nothing. And, well, more than a few one-on-one 'lessons' on techniques for impressing Katie. But those were simply _teaching_ moments! Exchanged kisses in Chazz's bunk for the sake of capturing Katie's heart had nothing to do with your miniscule attraction to your male skating partner. He was just an excellent teacher. That's all.

If only she hadn't ditched you. Then it would be easier to distract yourself from the thoughts your stupid teammate keeps planting in your head. His stupid face. And stupid muscular thick thighs. He certainly seemed to like your chicken leg thighs, or whatever he had taken to calling them this week.

Ugh. It's no use. His pursuit of ruffling your feathers is becoming successful. You bite your lip and try to focus on the Teen Beat magazine you've been attempting to read. You're on the cover again, that seems fun to think about. And also- WAIT. He just jumped about a dozen lines as shifted to breathe annoyingly hot in your ear.

"_Jiiiiimmy_. Loosen up, sweet cheeks. I think it's time I give you an exclusive pass to the mile high club. Just relax. Free admission, courtesy of the Chazz-man."

You meet his eyes finally and practically whimper as he pulls his hand away slowly with a wink.

Your face is as red as the old skating outfit he once wore. The one he wore the day he publicly called you out, while mouthing his want for you in a moment that you still can't decide if it was a joke or a secret desire. Secret is out now, if that was the case. He grabs your hand and starts leading you to the sure to be small airplane bathroom. When did you decide to go along with this? Bad, betraying brain. Or, well, not exactly your thinking head at least.

He even has the nerve to wink at the attendant who actually manages to blush and turn a blind eye to what they were obviously about to do. Darn that man and his ability to charm even the most frigid of ice queens, yourself once included.

The doors close and you are immediately smashed up against the small sink, the ding of the 'occupied' light vaguely heard over the unfairly arousing sound Chazz just made against your lips.

"_Finally_," he breathes out. You grab his hair and pull him back in, hitching a leg around his. If you're going to be manhandled into doing these things in a cramped, probably unsanitary bathroom stall, you're going to get all you can manage out of the experience. Who knows when you'll get the chance again. He breaks contact momentarily to shed his leather vest and you slip out of your baby blue sweater as carefully as you can. He's having none of that and yanks it roughly over your head. The attack on your mouth continues and there seems to be no end in near sight.

When his hands fumble between undoing your belt and his, you realize you truly are going to earn that ticket into that club he was talking about. This is new territory for you, but you don't seem to be as worried as you usually are, as he sucks a mark into your once flawlessly skinned neck. Oh well, later you can worry about restorative skin care. There are far more interesting, distracting, amazing things happening way further below the neck. Below the belt.

As you and him manage to slip back into your designated seats once that ordeal has concluded, you feel incredibly more relaxed than how nervous you were before. There's no way the engines will fail. With a glance to the window, the sun is shining and no storms are threatening. Let the stewardess sneeze if she dares, you've done far dirtier things that that in the last thirty minutes.

You close your eyes, happy and sated, hoping to drift off to sleep until touching down in the city for your next skating competition. Just as blurry dreams begin to swirl in your head, a warm hand brushes once up your thigh. Twice. A third time, and no longer fleeting and hesitant.

You whip your face to the left to glare at Chazz's devilish smirk and single, raised eyebrow.

Groaning in never-ending frustration, you place your hand in his and wait to see if he attempts to drag you away to that filthy box again. You force yourself to admit that he is growing impossible to resist.


End file.
